


murphy's law

by tobeconvincedoflove



Series: TRC Prompt Fills [4]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Disordered Eating, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, SO, adam is a boxer, because i don't know a lot about boxing, dont' try to lose like 10 lbs in 5 days kids, greentmantle is like 'ur gonna fight him', it's a boxing au, k i think that's most of it, kavinsky is a weight class below adam, none of the boxing is explicit violence, ronan is his coach, you ready for this prompt?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 10:38:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15580119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconvincedoflove/pseuds/tobeconvincedoflove
Summary: many, many, many thanks to maddie (dietcokewhore on tumblr) for the incredible ex-nursing student knowledge that is very, very evident in this fic also i know so little about boxing.hmmkay so there's some disordered eating/specific discussion of hospital shit aftermath after disordered eating so pls don't read if that's triggery for youthis fills the prompt for boxer!adam lowering a weight class with coach!ronan and then shit going sideways at the fight





	murphy's law

**Author's Note:**

> many, many, many thanks to maddie (dietcokewhore on tumblr) for the incredible ex-nursing student knowledge that is very, very evident in this fic also i know so little about boxing.
> 
> hmmkay so there's some disordered eating/specific discussion of hospital shit aftermath after disordered eating so pls don't read if that's triggery for you
> 
> this fills the prompt for boxer!adam lowering a weight class with coach!ronan and then shit going sideways at the fight

“Hey, Parrish. Come over here a second.” Adam stops his circuit with the punching bag, after a punch that has Ronan grunting with the effort of trying to keep it still. Ronan follows Adam over to Greenmantle, who owns their gym. 

“Change of plans for your match this week. They want a title match, but the only one who’s up is Kavinsky. He’s a featherweight now—” 

“Because of the coke—” Ronan gets out.

“And you’re our best chance of beating him. It’ll look good, adds a different weight class title for you. But it’s in five days. Need you down to 125 or 124 pounds, ideally, in four days for the first weigh-in,” Greenmantle says, before walking away. Ronan Lynch follows.

“That’s insane. That’s ten pounds in a few days,” Ronan spits. “Kavinsky hasn’t been winning. Put anyone else _in his fucking weight class_ against him.” 

Greenmantle’s look is full of steel. 

“Better publicity if Parrish does it,” Greenmantle explains. “Start him on cardio.” 

“I’m his coach, you can’t fucking decide this.” Ronan’s voice is full of anger. “The entire gym could get in deep shit if this goes sideways.” 

“It won’t. I’ll be checking in on weight daily, Lynch. Don’t fuck around,” Greenmantle says, before he walks over to the ring to watch two of his heavyweights sparring. 

“It’s fine, Lynch. Guess we should get to work,” Adam says with a smile. He’s already dripping in sweat. 

“Nuh uh. I refuse to participate in this bullshit.” He says it loud enough that Greenmantle can hear it. 

“Parrish, go work with Todd on cardio.” 

Ronan knows this is the start of something terrible. 

His own career was cut short by Kavinsky and one too many concussions, and he knows enough by now to know that Kavinsky is going to fight dirty and hard. Ronan can see how this is going to end: he remembers talking with Blue, the fucking angriest dietician-prefers-the-label-nutritionist Ronan has ever met, about the shit that goes on in boxing. She had given him the rundown on starvation’s effect on the brain. Ronan can’t watch that happen with Adam. 

Ronan had met Adam two weeks after his career abruptly ended: he had been eighteen, Parrish sixteen. Adam had been signed up for boxing privates as a component of PTSD therapy, and Greenmantle had given him to Ronan. Ronan had still been reeling from the death of his parents and the Kavinsky match, angry, but he had taken one look at Adam and he knew that shit wasn’t going to fly with him. Adam has always been hungry, but he was ravenous then, barely making rent at a new apartment and ready to jump at every sound. Ronan had put two and two together. But Adam had gotten good, had learned how to protect himself and how to fight back, and so Ronan stuck around to coach Adam. 

But he would always belong to Greenmantle. That motherfucker.

:: ::

Ronan barely sees Adam the next few days. Greenmantle has, at the very least, shown Ronan Adam’s schedule and diet, but it only makes the anxiety clench his intestines tighter. Adam is in cardio almost non-stop with Todd, and he’s barely putting anything in his body, no carbs at all. In their sparring sessions, Ronan catalogues the increasing gauntness of Adam’s cheeks, the deepening of the circles underneath his eyes, the way his technique keeps getting fucking worse.

Adam is slowing down. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Ronan spits out, at the end of their last session before the first weigh-in. “You’re barely there, man.” 

“I’m just tired,” Adam says, laying down on the floor of the gym. “M’ not supposed to drink water until after the weigh-in.” 

“The fuck?” Ronan’s voice is harsh. “That’s not fucking okay.”

“It’s almost over. Just gotta win the match,” Adam says, eyes fluttering closed. Ronan takes a closer look; underneath the sweat and cut-off t-shirt, Ronan thinks he can see the outlines of Adam’s ribs. Adam has never been a beefy motherfucker, and he can’t bring himself to think about how much weight Adam has lost so quickly. 

“You know it’s not gonna be easy,” Ronan says, laying down next to Adam. “Kavinsky fights dirty.” 

“He hasn’t won in a while,” Adam responds easily. He’s fiddling with his hands. 

“Doesn’t matter. He’s going to be coked out and shit, and you can barely keep your eyes open,” Ronan responds, poking Adam in the side. Adam’s eyes briefly open. 

“I’m tired. It’s almost midnight. I’ve been here all day,” Adam responds easily. 

“You know he was my last match, right?” Ronan’s voice is guarded. “We were fighting for a welterweight title.” 

“He used to be a welterweight?” Adam’s face creases. 

“Again, cocaine,” is all Ronan responds. “He fought dirty. I hadn’t fully recovered from my last concussion. Got another. The doctors said if I got another one it would be bad. I had to stop,” Ronan explains. Adam’s bony hand, bandaged and scraped and scarred, finds his own. 

“I’m so tired, Ronan,” Adam admits. “I’m down to 126. Without the water weight, I should pass the weigh-in tomorrow, even if I eat seven-hundred calories tonight. That’s, like, four whole chicken breasts. Then I just repeat for the morning of the match.” 

“You realize how fucked up that sounds, right? Greenmantle needs to call off the match.” Ronan’s voice sounds like he swallowed gun powder then lit a match. “It’s not safe. Not against Kavinsky, not against anyone.” 

“He won’t. I’ll be fine, Ronan,” Adam says. In the dim lighting of the gym, Ronan sees the hazel in Adam’s eyes shining when the rest of his face seems so dull. That’s not Adam Parrish. Adam Parrish is curly, dusty-brown hair soaked with sweat, freckles shining and blood slipping through bandages. “Then this can all go back to normal.”

Ronan snorts. 

“Adam, you can’t tell me you think you were fighting well today.” Adam doesn’t respond. He just pulls himself to his feet, swaying slightly. It looks like he might have greyed-out, but Ronan can’t say anything. 

He needs to talk to Blue. He needs to talk to Greenmantle. He needs to stop this.

:: ::

“Jesus, fuck. We’re done, okay?” Adam’s coordination is, somehow, worse today than it was yesterday. Ronan had been trying to spar with Adam, playing Kavinsky’s style, but he has Adam on his ass within four minutes each time. Adam’s barely tracking.

“No. I gotta train,” Adam pants out. He’s still on his back in the ring. 

“Hmm nope. You need, like, a shitload of calories and four liters of water,” Ronan responds. “Blue is going to be on your ass next week.” 

Adam just groans. 

“We’re not training again until Blue clears you, after the match. So probably about this time next week?” Ronan’s voice is harsh, feels like razor blades leaving his throat. 

“Fuck you. I’m fine. Ronan, I’m serious. I actually l feel fine.” There’s a long pause. Adam is clenching his jaw. Ronan refuses to acknowledge Adam’s complete fucking denial of what he’s doing to himself. 

“How did the morning weigh in go?” Ronan had watched the aftermath; Todd had him doing sprint circuit after sprint circuit. 

“Hmm, not bad. 123 and a half. Easily in the weight class. After the one tomorrow, I’m just going to chug water,” Adam says. “Kavinsky is just under 126.” 

“You’re going to be sick if you do that, shithead,” Ronan responds. “Just… Adam. If shit goes sideways, you tap the fuck out. Okay? I’m not dicking around.” His voice is calm, low, but firm. 

“I will. But the money for this one is good. Better if I finish the match,” Adam gets out. Ronan just sighs. 

“Won’t mean a fucking thing if it’s your last match. Just… fucking rest, okay?” 

Ronan leaves Adam lying there. He can’t watch. He thinks back through their entire session today; it was so fucking bizarre. Adam honestly looked like he thought he felt fine, but then there was just… it was just weird. Normally, when Adam wraps his hands, it’s a one-and-done. He’s so used to it that he doesn’t even think about it anymore, but today he had done it eight times before he decided it was good enough. But here’s the thing: he’d done it the same way every single time. 

And then there’s his fighting. Adam’s strength is usually his unpredictability; no one knows what punch he’s going to throw when and where. Not today. He’s caught on the same few ones, like somewhere in his brain there’s a wire that’s just snapped and it’s like Adam can’t move forwards without getting caught on the same fucking things. Or something. Fuck, Ronan doesn’t know. 

It makes Ronan’s insides squirm, move around with how _wrong_ this all feels. Adam is on the knife’s edge, and Ronan’s worried all it’s going to take is one punch from Kavinsky for Adam to crash. The whole thing seems impossible; Adam is surviving on baked chicken breasts and fumes, and yet he’s working out more intensely than normal. Ronan is used to the impossible, but he knows the longer this goes, the farther Adam is going to fall. 

Ronan doesn’t know how to soften the landing.

:: ::

Ronan pulls Greenmantle aside, as Adam wraps his hands fucking again. This shit is getting weird.

“Pull the fucking fight. IBF knows about the shady shit, and they’re not happy,” Ronan says. “You know he can’t beat Kavinsky like this.” 

Greenmantle gives him a look, and then Ronan knows. Adam was never meant to win this fight. 

“Fuck you.” Ronan’s voice is full of fire, but he can’t fucking look at Greenmantle without wanting to strangle him right then and there. So he does what he can. He walks over to Adam, wraps Adam’s hands himself, shoves a water bottle into Adam’s hands when he’s done. 

Adam had been training by himself earlier, had thrown up the water he’d drank after the weigh-in. That’s not a good sign, Ronan knows it. 

Too much, too quickly. 

It all seems to go too fast, between getting Adam ready for the match. His eyes aren’t really tracking what Ronan’s doing, can barely remember to bite down on the mouth guard when Ronan tells him to. 

Ronan makes the mistake of letting his eyes slide over to Blue, who’s in the audience. She looks livid. 

Kavinsky looks feral, teeth yellow and body almost grossly thin. He looks like a wild animal that’s been cornered, ready to fight its way out.

Adam looks like he could fall over at any moment.

:: ::

Adam doesn’t remember how he gets into the ring. Time isn’t real, not today; he can blink and it seems like minutes have passed, but then Ronan can go from wrapping his hands to ten feet away in an instant, and after that, trying to put on his shoes it seems to take an hour.

And then he’s staring down Kavinsky. The mouth guard feels intrusive, large, in his mouth when it normally doesn’t. Adam can barely get his hands up to guard his face before Kavinsky is lunging at him. That’s one of those times when Adam seems to lose minutes; he knows he punches, knows he’s hit, but the specifics of what’s happening seem too far away for him to grasp. His legs feel like his shoes are made of lead, or like he’s slowly melding into the floor. His arms don’t feel much lighter. 

At one point, Kavinsky manages to knock Adam’s head and he feels himself hit the mat. A burst of fire floods through his veins, a spark of energy so concentrated and potent that Adam’s eyes slam open and he’s on his feet in an instant. 

Kavinsky fades away. The entire room is dark, just for one second. 

Oh, holy fuck, that’s not good. 

Adam doesn’t even realize he’s lost time until Kavinsky is lunging at him again and Adam can barely keep up. His head is spinning, the lights are so bright and they’re… moving? How? Everything feels disconnected, like someone pulled a few wires just for the fun of it. Adam can barely block his face. He knows he’s not returning blows, knows that this is the danger zone of a fight. 

Is Adam concussed? He doesn’t fucking know. He doesn’t know, but he can hear Ronan yelling, can hear a whistle so loud it blinds him but it doesn’t matter. Kavinsky is just hitting him over and over and over and Adam can’t hear anything out of his good ear anymore.

He blinks, and then the lights are directly above him. Blinks again and he registers the mat below him. Blinks again and he sees Ronan’s face, swimming above his own. There are hands on his face, pulling off the head gear and the mouth guard and doing something else. 

Blinks again and Adam doesn’t see or hear anything.

 

 

Adam knows he only loses a few seconds, a minute at most, but when his eyes are open it’s too blurry, too much sensation, and he’s so lost in the bright lights bearing down on him that sounds aren’t working. It’s all a high-pitched whine, too similar and too loud to discern anything else. Even when the light disappears, when he’s moving on something away from it all, it’s too much. He tries to sit up, but his limbs are so heavy and there’s something stopping him, anyway. 

He doesn’t know who’s around, doesn’t know what’s happening, what’s wrong. 

The sound finally returns to him when Adam’s somewhere smaller. He hears a lot of voices, but mostly Ronan’s. 

“Yeah. He’s normally mid-130’s,” Ronan confirms. “He’s concussed, right?” 

Adam just groans. Ronan’s hand finds his own. 

“I highly fucking doubt you’re lucid right now, Parrish,” he gets out, voice sounding tight and choked. “Just chill the fuck out until we get this shit under control.” 

“Ro—” Adam starts, but his tongue feels heavy, dry, in his own mouth. 

“Not now. Later,” Ronan says, and then he turns back away. Adam lets it all slide away. 

“He’s got a BP of 105/63 right now, heart rate 49,” a nurse calls out, as Adam feels himself move again. “He needs a CT. Probable concussion, malnutrition, dehydration, and fatigue,” the voice rattles off, and Adam realizes he can’t see Ronan anymore. They snap a bracelet over his wrist, attach wires and leads to his chest, stick an IV in the crook of his elbow, put something over his right pointer finger. It all feels like so much; Adam can’t decipher faces and voices. He doesn’t know what’s happening, can’t seem to make his tongue cooperate with his brain. 

“We need an accurate weight,” a new voice says, and then there are hands helping Adam up. He stands, and then the world goes black for a second. When it comes back, there’s annoyingly loud beeping and he’s leaning hard against a nurse, legs uncooperative. 

They tell Adam to get on something, helps his hands to grip the railing and keep him upright until they’re done with whatever is happening and Adam isn’t standing, anymore. 

He blinks, and then he’s in a room. There’s a lot of people talking. 

“Laying to standing went from 105/63 to 92/55, and his heart rate went from 49 to 107,” a voice is saying. “They said they had him on no carbs and reduced water. He’s going to be at risk for refeeding syndrome.”

“Okay, so significant orthostatic hypotension and tachycardia. Has he had the CT yet? Q4 blood sugars and orthostatic vitals. Tele-monitoring , strict input and output record. Start fluids, but monitor closely,” a new voice says. “Page me when the CT results are in.” 

Adam tries to sit up quickly, and this time the hands are too slow and the blackout is too quick.

:: ::

Ronan is in the waiting room, Blue clutching his hand like a lifeline. She hasn’t even chewed out Ronan yet, has just sat there and been there as Ronan’s breath hitches and he holds back the flood of terror eating at him.

“He’s going to be fine,” Blue says, after a while. “He’s going to have to be inpatient for at least a few days, but I don’t think the concussion is as bad as it seems. Those symptoms could also be from the… the weight loss.” 

“You don’t have to fucking sugar-coat it. I should have stopped this shit,” Ronan gets out. 

“This is Greenmantle’s fault. Not yours.” Blue’s voice is harsh. She just rubs Ronan’s back as he hunches over, until there’s a doctor in the waiting room calling Ronan’s name. 

They both follow her through the hallways to what looks like her office. 

“Please sit,” she says, voice strained. Ronan does, his eyes dark. “I’m Rose Thelburn, and I’ve been treating Adam upon admission.” 

“Is he okay?” Ronan asks, voice full of rusted nails. He can’t get the image of Adam falling, of Adam unable to get up out of his head. 

“He will be. Adam is experiencing low blood pressure, and though his resting heart rate is low, I take that as a result of his profession,” Dr. Thelburn starts. “However, his BP and heart rate take a steep jump when he goes from laying to standing. This is result of the dramatic weight loss. We will be monitoring his vitals continuously, as well as daily labs and weights and monitoring his intake and output closely. There are concerns about his blood sugar, so we will be monitoring that as well. Right now, he’s on strict bed rest. In order for us to consider discharge, he needs to be up to ten-minute walks and wheelchair rides. At least twice a day.” 

“And the concussion?” Ronan asks.

“It’s not severe as we initially thought, given the mixing of the symptoms. It’s a mild concussion, but it’s enough to disorient him right now,” she explains. 

“He’s at risk for refeeding syndrome, right?” Blue asks. 

“Yes. We’re going to have to be very careful about building Adam back up to his normal intake. He’ll probably be here for at least five days; we need to monitor him closely right now. His heart is in significant danger.” Dr. Thelburn doesn’t sound angry, but Ronan can guess what she’s thinking. Ronan is the coach. Why did he let Adam do this? “This kind of weight loss is dangerous.” 

“It won’t happen again,” Ronan vows. “It shouldn’t have happened at all. Can we see him?” 

“Yes. There will be nurses in and out,” she says, and then they’re standing again. By the time they get to the ward, it’s clear which bed is Adam’s. He’s got at least three monitors, EKG leads attached to his chest in no less than ten places, another monitor on his finger, an IV bag steadily dripping into the tube attached at the crook of his elbow. 

He looks like shit. 

His face is already bruising from the fight, dark circles melding with the bruises. He looks so much smaller than he had in the ring, smaller than the skinny and scared sixteen-year-old with a hunted look in his eyes. 

Ronan is at Adam’s side. He’s asleep, or not-asleep, but his eyes are closed. 

“We’ll remove the IV as soon as he can start tolerating enough fluids orally,” a nurse says, and Ronan realizes how pale his face must have gotten. “You can stay for a few minutes, but then you have to leave until visiting hours. Adam needs to rest.” 

“What are you starting him off with, food-wise?” Blue asks. She’s a dietician, but she uses the term nutritionist when it makes people (read: Adam) uncomfortable. 

“1000 calories in the day. Three meals, three snacks. Hopefully we’ll get good intake and output information,” a nurse answers. “He’s on strict bed rest, probably for at least the next two days.” 

“He’s not going to like that,” Ronan mumbles. It’s then that Adam’s eyes crack open. 

“Heard your voice,” Adam slurs. “What’s happ’n?” He turns his head, but his nose crinkles like the motion bothers him. 

“Hey,” Ronan says, as Adam shifts around. He doesn’t bother trying to sit up, because he’s dizzy and tired and he knows he’s probably going to black himself out if he tries it any quicker than glacier speed. “Relax, Adam.” 

“Oh, fuck. Fuck. The match.” Adam’s eyes are as wide as they can get. “You’re mad.” 

“Not about that,” Ronan gets out. “You really… this shit was so dangerous, Adam.” Ronan can’t help how harshly the words come out. 

“I had to,” Adam responds, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “I was just doing what Greenmantle said. ‘M fine now.” 

“No. You’re really fucking not,” Ronan forces out. “You’re at risk for a shitton of heart problems and refeeding syndrome and like eighteen other things, Parrish. That’s not fucking fine.”

“You’re mad at me.” Adam’s breath hitches, and Ronan looks and Adam’s eyes are watery. His lower lip is trembling. Ronan grabs Adam’s left hand, squeezes it. “I just did what I was s’posed to. I don’t know why you’re mad.” 

Adam is crying, now. 

Ronan knows it’s the concussion that’s making Adam volatile, but it’s so Adam that it sends a current of electricity straight through Ronan’s heart. 

“That’s the problem, Adam.” Ronan’s grinding his teeth, clenching his jaw hard to keep his anger in check. He needs to hit something, preferably Greenmantle. Adam can’t even see or understand that this isn’t normal or okay or whatever the fuck he thinks it is. 

“I don’t know how to fix it. Please don’t be mad at me,” Adam practically begs. Ronan’s hand moves away from Adam’s, and Adam goes to grab it again. “Ronan, please don’t be mad at me.” 

“Adam, I’m not—” but Ronan can’t finish the sentence. Adam has bolted upright, and not only does it set off the machines, he’s clearly clinging to consciousness by a thread, and the nurse still fiddling with machines quickly lays Adam back down. Ronan’s hand finds Adam’s again, holding on tightly, eyes full of fear. 

Adam is still crying, tears slipping silently down his cheeks.

“He’s fine. He just shouldn’t do that,” the nurse says, helpfully. 

“Adam, I promise I’m not mad at you,” Ronan says, careful to keep his voice low and under control. In reality, his gut burns with how furious he is. Ronan Lynch doesn’t lie; he’s not mad at Adam, not really, but he’s mad at Greenmantle, mad at Todd, mad at the fucking IBF, mad at Kavinsky, mad at the fact the result of all of this is Adam almost fucking blacking out from sitting up. 

“I’m sorry,” Adam gets out, and before Ronan can stop himself, his arms are around Adam. He’s careful with the wires and IV, and he has to ignore the protests of the nurse, but Adam is crying and he’s crying hard, chest heaving from where it’s leaning against Ronan’s. Ronan holds on, lets Adam cry himself. Adam is still asking how to fix it, doesn’t want to be comforted, but as Ronan whispers he’s not mad again and again and again until Adam finally starts to believe him. 

By the time Ronan and Blue are back outside the front of the hospital, Adam had fallen back asleep. 

“This is so fucked up.” Ronan can barely get the words out, the own lump in his throat too much to swallow around. Blue leans against Ronan, and Ronan in turn leans against Blue. 

“We’ll get him through this.”

:: ::

When Ronan walks into Adam’s room the next morning, Adam is sitting up. He looks like he’s trying to eat a yoghurt, and a nurse is watching closely.

“Whatever you don’t finish is going to be replaced by a Boost shake,” the nurse says, and Adam’s nose wrinkles. 

“If that fails you get a tube up your nose,” Ronan says cheerfully, pulling up a chair. Adam just throws Ronan a look, but he continues to eat. He drinks the water he’s supposed to, even though Ronan can see tight lines in Adam’s shoulders by the time he’s done. The nurse leaves, and Adam turns to Ronan.

“Help me up?” Adam asks Ronan, but Ronan just responds with a harsh laugh. 

“Bed rest, Parrish. I know the briefing,” he says, and Adam throws him a look. “I’m also not convinced you’re gonna be awake enough to make it worthwhile.” 

“Fuck you,” Adam says, but there’s no bite in it. He’s already melting back into the mattress. 

“Nurses say you blacked out at the morning weigh-in again,” Ronan comments, hands playing with the leather wristbands. “But the water weight is coming back.” 

“Yeah,” Adam says. “They won’t let me out of the bed, Ro.” Adam looks tired, anxiety etched into the lines of his shoulders, exposed by the loose hospital top. 

“Yeah. Because you keep fucking blacking out,” Ronan says. “Give it another day. The next step is super exciting. You’re gonna hate it.” 

“What is it?” Adam’s voice is hesitant. Ronan gives him a savage grin.

“Supervised shower. Seated and lukewarm.” Ronan shouldn’t be taking joy out of the way Adam groans, but he does. “Ten minutes max.”

Adam just rolls his head over to give Ronan his best glare. It’s not his best, maybe 60% of its normal potency. 

“You look tired. You can sleep, if you want. I get to review your match footage, so I can keep busy,” Ronan says. Adam’s face falls further. 

“Greenmantle doesn’t make you do that,” Adam gets out. He sounds like he’s already asleep.

“He does when I punch him in the face,” Ronan shoots back.

“Ronan, you didn’t—” Adam starts, eyes searching Ronan’s knuckles for the bruising, finds it. “Ronan, I’m fine.” 

“I think I have more than enough evidence that you’re not. There’s honest-to-god college graduates that have to monitor how much you’re fucking peeing, so I don’t think that qualifies as okay,” Ronan says. “I don’t regret it.” 

“Fuck. When’s my next match?” Adam asks, and Ronan lets out a frustrated sigh. 

“Whenever I fucking schedule it. Which is whenever you’re cleared by the entire team of pee-counters and the doctor and Blue.” Ronan’s voice is dripping with something that’s not quite sarcasm but not at all angry. 

“Fuck.” Adam’s still got dark circles under his eyes, and he’s got a nice shiner on his right side, now. He’s always so much better at protecting his left, no matter how hard Ronan works to correct it. “M’ gonna win.”

“Hell yeah you are,” Ronan says, eyes on his iPad as he looks at something with intense scrutiny. “Now go the fuck to sleep.” 

“It’s like ten a.m.,” Adam says, but when Ronan goes to respond, Adam is already asleep. 

Ronan allows himself a smile.

There’s so much that’s still up in the air, with the gym and Adam’s health and Greenmantle, but he can’t let Adam see that. Adam has to worry about all of the crazy shit, like gaining back the weight safely and calorie intake and getting himself well, and Ronan has to… Ronan will deal with the rest of this. Because it can’t happen again. He doesn’t know how he can make Greenmantle see how badly he fucked up Adam, but he thinks the fact the hospital refused to release Adam when Greenmantle asked made some sort of an impact. But Ronan’s going to have to ease him back into training when all Greenmantle wants is to throw Adam back out there.

Adam would go, in an instant. There’s so much that he’s worked on with Ronan, and in so many ways he’s better than the scared sixteen-year-old, but Adam looks at Greenmantle with the same look he gets in his eyes when he has to talk about Robert Parrish. Adam doesn’t know how to look out for his own safety, trusts that the people around who tell him to do crazy shit for boxing are looking out for him and his career, not the depth of their own pockets.

Ronan can never stand to watch Adam hurt. 

That’s all he’s done, lately, is watch Adam hurt and do nothing to stop it. Something has to give. Something has to change. 

Ronan can’t do this if it doesn’t. 

He can hold Adam’s hand, can help coaxing Adam into eating when he doesn’t want to because he just woke up. He can let Adam play dumb games on his phone when his headache isn’t bad, can fight with Greenmantle so that Adam doesn’t have to. He would burn cities, burn himself, to the ground to keep Adam safe. 

It’s the look on Adam’s face, after they spar in their shitty little gym. It’s unguarded, open and honest and completely Adam that it feels like Ronan’s spying, seeing something he’s not allowed to see. 

So Ronan stays.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Let me know what you think! I'm open for prompts in the comments or @ tumblr (thoseunheard) lmk what you think please :)


End file.
